The Woodcock
by JacksonFarrell
Summary: Postscript to "The Hunter." One night in a mental hospital with Jonathan Kincaid. Reader advisory: Contains graphic imagery that some may find disturbing.


**The Woodcock**

 _No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream._

\- Shirley Jackson

1.

Although well-spoken and expensively educated, Jonathan Kincaid had never been a reader. At the boarding school where his parents had sent him to get rid of him, he'd been exposed - however superficially - to the classics of Western literature. He cared nothing for them. He read them because he had to, forgot them as soon as he could. _Hamlet_ was not actually the last literary work Jonathan Kincaid had read. But it was the last one he remembered reading. And he remembered it only because his attention had been caught by a reference to hunting.

Jonathan Kincaid was a hunter. With a cold sharp eye and a cold sharp intellect and an unflinching hand, he had hunted on every continent that had game, in every land that would let him in. To him, hunting was more than hobby or profession; more, even, than way of life. Hunting was his identity.

Eyes, brain, and nerve he had been born with. But that life demanded more than mere natural gifts. Obsessively Kincaid had exercised his body, policed his diet, perfected his marksmanship, honed his woodcraft. With all the time spent in practice, in exercise, in travel, and above all in the field itself - who had time to read?

Part of his self-discipline was making sure he got the rest his body required. He lived hard, tired himself out, went to bed early, and slept soundly. He never dreamed.

2.

Now he moved under the jungle canopy, slicing through the darkness as stealthily as a submarine slices through the deep. Stalking. No man alive was better at this. Even the panther might, if he could, acknowledge him as a near-equal. So Kincaid thought. He could hear the quarry well enough, and the quarry couldn't hear him. Just a few more steps and he'd see the red shirt in the darkness. Then he'd grin and raise his barrel for the killshot -

Something large sprang up right in front of him.

Shock came - and passed in half a second or less. He'd already started to recover. Then he got a good look at it.

Then his mind ground to a halt.

He could see it clearly by the starlight. It was a rabbit. But his brain couldn't process the sight of a five-foot-three-inch rabbit standing on its hind feet, holding a large wicker basket in its left front paw.

Kincaid stared.

The rabbit swung the basket in a roundhouse arc that hit him square in the right temple. Kincaid staggered. Jelly beans flew in all directions.

Rabbits are fast. Rabbits have large, sharp front teeth. This one had front teeth the size of a shovel blade. The rabbit went for Kincaid's right hand, severing it in one bite. She watched coldly through big brown eyes as Kincaid's legs gave out and he fell, bleeding, to the jungle floor.

3.

Kincaid's eyes sprang open. He couldn't see the jungle. All he could see was the room with whitewashed walls, illuminated by the night light. His new home, discreetly nestled in the loveliest part of the Maryland hunt country: the Sanger-Rainsford Memorial Inpatient Psychiatric Clinic. The genteel loony bin they'd carted him to after his headline-grabbing collapse at a trap-shooting tournament.

He shook his head. _Must be the malaria coming back_. He was in the _jungle_ , on the _island_. Had to be. He couldn't possibly be _here_.

And by 3 a.m., he wasn't. He was back on the island, back in the millionaire couple's fancy hut, and a tall sinuous redhead in a tight dress looked at him through narrowed eyes, caressed the back of his neck, and purred, "Let's drink a toast in pineapple juice. . . to us. . . ." He accepted the coconut cup, touched it to hers, and drank.

His stomach seemed to fold on itself. His eyes popped wide open. Fire rushed from his gut through all his extremities at once. He fell face-up onto the closest bed.

The redhead turned away and walked across the room to Kincaid's kit. She rummaged through it until she found what she wanted. Then she pivoted and walked back to him, shaking her head.

"Poor Jonathan," she sighed. "Poor, poor Jonathan. Are you dead yet? You're supposed to be, but the stuff we put in the juice can be hit-or-miss." She shrugged. "So they tell me. Matter of fact, I sort of hope you're not. Your eyes are open. I hope you're seeing this. And I sure hope you'll feel it."

He stared up at her helplessly. His throat was exposed. She lifted Kincaid's handaxe high above her head, a warrior goddess brandishing her sword.

"I know you'll understand, Jonathan." She giggled. "After all, don't all you big-game hunters collect trophies?"

She swung.

 _Chop_.

Lift.

 _Chop_.

Lift. . . .

4.

His eyes opened. (Wait! Hadn't they just _been_ open?) He strangled a cry and rolled to his right, hitting the buzzer to bring the night nurse. He had to sleep. He'd never taken drugs, had scorned those who needed them, but. . . he had to sleep. If he needed a drug to get there, he'd take it.

After a few minutes, the knock came. The night nurse opened the door and hit the overhead light. She was a tall, pretty redhead with green eyes and a form-fitting uniform, carrying a small plastic cup of liquid on a tray.

Kincaid screamed.

It took the orderlies nearly an hour to calm him down enough to get the sedative into him.

5.

"A quarter-million?"

"No."

"Half a million?"

"I'm not interested in money."

The millionaire shook his head. "Well, Mr. Kincaid, I am disappointed. Yet, sir, I must reluctantly take my hat off to you. I so seldom meet a man I can't bribe." He began to walk out.

Then he stopped and turned back to Kincaid.

"Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for you, I had very little trouble indeed bribing your native bearer, Mr. Ramu. Really, you sportsmen, all alike - exploiting poor natives all over the world, then expecting them to swallow everything with a humble 'Yes Bwana, no Bwana.' Absolutely shocking. No wonder the government feels obliged to spend such outrageous sums on foreign aid. All of it my money, too, judging from my last tax bill. At least this money will be better spent."

He raised his voice. "Oh, Mr. Ramu? Won't you join us?"

Ramu entered the hut. He leveled his pigsticker at Kincaid, resting the point lightly on his midsection.

"What now, boss?"

"Ramu! Get that thing away -"

Ramu interrupted Kincaid brutally. "Ramu not talking to _you_." He didn't turn from Kincaid as he addressed the millionaire. "Well, boss?"

"In the vernacular, Mr. Ramu. . . let him have it."

Ramu shoved. The pigsticker went right through Kincaid's guts, exiting through the muscles of his lower back. The pain was indescribable. The smell was worse. Ramu pulled it out, and Kincaid collapsed. Ramu wiped the pigsticker off, shouldered it, and walked to the door alongside the millionaire. The millionaire placed one arm around Ramu's meaty shoulders.

"Excellent work, Mr. Ramu. I do believe you've earned yourself a bonus. Shall we repair to my temporary quarters to discuss the matter over a drink? . . . "

Before they left, the millionaire turned to Kincaid.

"Oh, Kincaid? Perhaps you'd better have that hole in your shirt repaired - before it lets out too much hot air, you know. And do try not to bleed too much over my things, there's a good chap. Shall I give your regards to my wife? Sorry she couldn't be here, but she doesn't usually get up this early. Except, of course, for something important."

Kincaid sat upright, gasping with pain. His clothes were wet, soaked. . . . But they weren't clothes, they were pajamas. The moisture was sweat. The air conditioning had turned his sweat cold. The pain was gone - had never really been there - but the memory made the skin on his belly tingle. Closing his eyes, he fell back onto the bed.

6.

Forty-five minutes later, he was emerging from the jungle, approaching the beach. He scanned the lagoon patiently, paying close attention to the motion of the reeds that grew profusely close to shore. Nothing. But on the horizon. . . was that the silhouette of a ship?

It was. A destroyer, to be specific. Vintage: circa 1944. It was turned broadside to the island.

And _that_ was a muzzle flash. Kincaid hit the sand face down. He heard a rumble, the shell flying over his head, then an explosion in the jungle beyond.

The next thing he heard was a familiar rumbling voice filtered through a ship's PA system. He sat up, dazed.

"NOW HEAR THIS, KINCAID! NOW HEAR THIS!" Kincaid couldn't see the speaker and from this distance shouldn't have been able to hear him. "How do you like it on the other end of the gun? You may not be as big a target as I am. And I'm not much of a shot. But guess what, Kincaid? With a four-inch gun, _you don't need to be real accurate_! Close is good enough!"

Flash. Rumble. _Boom_. This one was closer, peppering Kincaid with bamboo slivers from the trees it wrecked. Dots of blood from a dozen pinpricks welled on his skin.

"How's that for marksmanship, Kincaid? I've got your range now! Next one's got your name on it!"

Kincaid ran into the jungle. The third shell fell behind him. He ran, and his breath got short; ran, and he felt a stitch in his side; ran, and his legs ached and stinging sweat dripped into his eyes. He'd thought he was in better condition than this. But he was alive. This was good enough.

He never saw the vine that tripped him. He did see the tarp, just briefly, when the corners leapt up around him. In a second, he was dangling three feet off the ground in a canvas sack, neck and limbs bent in new and interesting ways.

Another familiar voice.

"Well, Kincaid, it looks as though I've got you in _my_ bag! Perhaps you should have studied chess!"

Then the same rumbling voice he'd heard from the destroyer. How had he gotten ashore so fast?

"Nice work! You keep an eye on him; I'll be right back. I sure hope my little buddy topped up the firewood this morning."

Before long Kincaid heard a rattle and thump on the ground under him. _The firewood_.

"Here it is. I knew my little buddy wouldn't let me down. Shame we don't have any lighter fluid."

"Fortunately," said the chess player's voice, "we do have that alcohol I distilled from the native berries." Kincaid heard the sound of liquid being poured. The chess player was also splashing it liberally onto the tarp. The fumes choked him. "This should do the job."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: you're the smartest man I ever met. I don't know where we'd be without you."

"Oh, you'd manage. Got the matches?"

"Yep, right here."

 _Whoosh_.

Heat. Flames. The tarp burned and shredded. And Kincaid fell out of it, into the fire. Headfirst.

The impact of the tile floor on his face, cold where he'd expected searing heat, woke him.

7.

Kincaid had changed his mind. He'd only _thought_ he needed sleep. If _this_ was sleep. . . if this was what sleep was going to be from now on. . . better stay awake. He pinched himself viciously.

Within the hour he was back on the island.

Back in the jungle, rifle in hand. Back on the trail. The sun was coming up. He could see the track of the quarry. His head was clear. Before sunset yesterday, he'd dug a pit here. He'd camouflaged it well, he himself couldn't have seen it even at noon, but he knew - the map in his head told him - just where it was. With quick delicate steps he skirted its edge.

A flash of red. Range, 150 yards. Easy shot.

Kincaid grinned. He raised the rifle. The white hat was in his crosshairs. At this distance he couldn't miss, he could shoot the button off the top of the hat if he wanted to. He squeezed the trigger.

A yellow and red flash leapt from the barrel. It was a yellow flag. It said "BANG" in big red letters.

The rifle recoiled anyway. If anything, harder than usual. Kincaid wasn't ready for that. He staggered back a few steps. The last step took him over the edge of the pit.

At the bottom, a 35-pound rock jutted up like a lone tooth. Kincaid had put it there. He landed on it, taking the impact between his shoulderblades, a foot away from a skull fracture. He knew right away that at least two vertebrae were broken. He only hoped his spine wasn't.

A face hung out over the edge. Kincaid, on his back, couldn't help seeing it. The face wore a friendly grin.

"Hi, Mr. Kincaid!" Gilligan said. "Whatcha doing down there? Is the hunt over?"

He wasn't even breathing hard.

Kincaid was, though. He couldn't articulate a plea for help; he could only gasp and make guttural sounds in his throat.

"You want me to give you a hand?"

Kincaid nodded. He could still nod.

Gilligan clapped his hands.

He chuckled. "Sorry about that, Mr. Kincaid. Not funny, huh? If it makes you feel any better, the Skipper thinks that's a dumb joke too. Sit tight, and I'll _really_ give you a hand." The face disappeared.

 _Sit tight_? Sure, what else did he have to do?

Kincaid stared at the island sky until Gilligan came back.

"Here you go." He tossed an object into the pit. The thing hit him in the chest like a dead bat - _thump_ \- and slid off.

It was his right hand.

He looked at his right arm. His eyes widened to see the raw stump.

"Hope it helps!" Gilligan shouted. "You wouldn't _believe_ the trouble I had getting that away from Mary Ann!" He laughed.

As Kincaid lay propped against the rock, two lines from _Hamlet_ forced their way to the front of his brain, pushing through the silent horror jamming his head.

 _Why, like a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric._

 _I am justly killed with mine own treachery._

They were the only lines he knew.


End file.
